


Sing for absolution

by ArtanisNaanie



Series: Muse [6]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Communication, Geralt wears a kilt, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Gratuitous use of canon dialogue, I'm Bad At Tagging, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Making Up, Oh look they talk, They switch because I say so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:14:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25166788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtanisNaanie/pseuds/ArtanisNaanie
Summary: “I love the way you just stand in a corner and brood,” he says, because he’s a moron. There’s a tiny twitch at the corner of Geralt’s mouth that Jaskier has come to recognize as a smile, though, so he pushes on, because he’s nothing if persistent in making a fool of himself. “You must have some review.. three words or less.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Muse [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1752481
Comments: 24
Kudos: 209
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development, The Modern Witcher AU Collection





	Sing for absolution

**Author's Note:**

> THEY TALK!
> 
> This work is part of a series and doesn't make a lot of sense without the rest. 
> 
> This one was hard to write, guys. Jaskier and Geralt had their own opinions about it and they didn't quite fit mine. I also had a very hard time to find the time, the focus to write and, with 3 wips on the way, I felt a bit overwhelmed. Your amazing comments and response kept me going though and still do. Thank you, thank you for reading this. You're awesome.
> 
> Update 01/10/2021: Thanks to Rita, this series is edited now!! Check her work [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyRita1967/pseuds/LovelyRita1967), she writes amazing fics!!

“You are _not_ wearing that.” Yennefer scowls seeing Jaskier’s shirt. He thinks it’s rather lovely if he says so himself. 

“Who made you boss, exactly?” he replies smoothly, adjusting the collar of said shirt and fiddling with the third button, uncertain about opening it or not. 

“Buttercup, you are not going to your biggest gig yet wearing a black shirt, what’s gotten into you?”

Yeah, the shirt is black. Fitted, nicely tailored, but black. It’s his first piece of black clothing since... he doesn’t know, but he’s in the mood for black. He carefully doesn’t think about why. 

“I quite like it, what’s wrong with black?” he shrugs, deciding to leave the third button alone. A bit of modesty never hurt anyone. 

Yennefer sputters. “What’s wrong with... Jas, you never wear black!”

“Yeah, I know. Time for a change, don’t you think? Maybe I’m getting a bit old to dress like an harlequin. Besides I really think you’re the last person on earth to be entitled to tell me not to wear black,” he replies, eyeing her very black dress and her very black shoes. The most colorful garment in Yen’s closet is navy blue, and it’s a bra. 

“Black’s my color, Buttercup. Not yours.” 

Jaskier shrugs again, adds two more rings to his hand, checks his hair, and takes his guitar. As Yennefer just said, he has a very big gig tonight. The place he’s going to perform is rather famous, though a bit underground, and he went to several concerts and shows there, to see actual famous people. He’s excited, and nervous, but happy. He has worked hard in the last years, and especially in the last two months, to get there. His Instagram is getting interest, he has offers to play almost every night, and even his manager at the radio station has said his work is good. He just needs a few more songs to send a sample to a label and hope it goes. For now, though, he focuses on tonight. 

“Coming?”

Yen rolls her eyes like she’s paid for it, curses under her breath, and takes her purse. Triss is going to join them with some other friends, and basically all the people Jaskier loves are going to be there. Well, almost, but he _doesn’t think about that_. Not _thinking about that_ allows him to channel all that energy in his singing and his writing, and that’s the only thing that matters.

The place is packed. The place is always packed, so Jaskier knows not to take it too personally, but _still_. He's calm as he prepares his set, no pre-show jitters, just some healthy anticipation, and his friends coming to tell him to break a leg makes him smile. There's a dais with a stool on it, he already did his sound and lights check earlier in the afternoon, and he's as ready as one can be to pour his heart in front of friends and strangers alike. He switches the last bracelet from his right to his left wrist, listens for his cue, and goes on stage. 

There's noise, of course, it's still a bar and not everybody is here just to listen to him, but as the lights dim and the first notes come out of his fingers the atmosphere quiets and Jaskier flies. He feels his music down in his bones and can sense it expanding in the room, touching people, sharing with them, and that's what he's always dreamt to do, it's _who he is_ at a molecular level. People applaud, some sing with him, Triss whistles so loud he barely can hide a smile at a moment of the song where really a smile isn't needed. He's happy. He's on top of the world. And then the lights are on again, at the end of his set, and before he can reach for the water bottle on the floor he meets a pair of golden eyes and his heart stops.

One. Two. Three. Five. Ten seconds. Then the world starts spinning again, Jaskier reaches for his water, downs it in three gulps, snatches his guitar and retreats to the backroom in record time. He's breathing hard, his chest constricted as if he was wearing a corset, his ears ring and he's probably going to die. Or he’s having a panic attack. Or just being overly dramatic, but he thinks he's entitled.

He just sang his heart out there. All his original songs are inspired by one person only, one person he didn't think he would see again, one person he went out of his way to not meet again, one person he thought would probably never hear them, and yet, here he is. 

Triss and Yen enter the dressing room without even knocking and find him slightly calmer. Triss is a whirlwind of praises and compliments, as usual, but Yennefer is a bit too silent for his liking. He glares at her. She glares back. 

"What the fuck did you do, Yen." 

"Nothing," she dares, as if her entire demeanor doesn't indicate that she's full of shit. "But..."

He shuts her up with a gesture of his hand. He doesn’t want to hear the but. Because she is a smart woman and she knows she can be a real bitch sometimes, she does shut up. He gathers his things, Triss babbling happily as if nothing has happened, and the routine of it helps him settle a bit more; he has no idea what's going to happen when he goes out there and there’s no reason to overthink it: Geralt could be already gone, after all. 

Geralt is not gone. As Jaskier does the tour of the room to receive claps on the back and compliments from his friends and some strangers, Geralt stays against the wall in front of the counter, a foot on the floor and another on the wall, arms crossed on his front. Jaskier can’t not notice the black leather kilt, the combat boots, the black t-shirt under the leather jacket: god, this man is gorgeous and still wraps himself in the sexiest clothes known to mankind. He also can’t not notice the black hair, and that’s weird: since Jaskier was an awkward fourteen years old with a crush on the older guy Geralt has always had white hair. It puzzles him, but he tries very hard to not look at him too much anyway. 

He finishes his round in a too short time and still has no idea what to say to Geralt, how to behave himself. He can feel his body react to the presence of the man, stupid, stupid body, but he can’t, he can’t, but he wants. It’s so hard. He stalls a bit more at the counter asking for a pint of ale, then turns around. Here goes nothing. 

“I love the way you just stand in a corner and brood,” he says, because he’s a moron. There’s a tiny twitch at the corner of Geralt’s mouth that Jaskier has come to recognize as a smile, though, so he pushes on, because he’s nothing if not persistent in making a fool of himself. “You must have some review... three words or less.”

“It was good,” replies Geralt, and Jaskier doesn’t really know what to do with this information, or with the look Geralt’s giving him, a new thing he has not the ability or the focus to interpret. He stops, about one meter from the other man, probably gaping a bit like a fish, until someone pushes him out of the way and towards Geralt, who takes it as his cue to move from the wall. They’re close now. Very close. Geralt smells like wood and bergamot and this new cologne is amazing and Jaskier needs to leave, _now_ , but he finds he can’t. 

“Good. Hm. Right. Of course it was good, I’m always good.” There's a glint in Geralt’s eyes that does _not_ make him hot under the collar as he pushes on, rushing to get the words out, “You’d known if you had come at some other of my concerts, Geralt, but you never did, did you?”

“A true oversight on my part,” Geralt grumbles, his eyes flitting between Jaskier’s eyes and his lips and no, Jaskier can’t do that, he just can’t. It’s unfair. 

“Yes, well, I could have told you that, Geralt, but thank you for coming anyway, I’m gonna go now…” he babbles again, trying to find the strength to get away from there, from him, from himself too. Geralt frowns a bit and uncrosses his arms, and his shirt is pulled taught on his chest and really, that’s _unfair_. “Why are you here, Geralt?” he practically whispers, his shoulders sagging from the weight of it all.

“I wanted to see you.”

“You could have called.”

“You know I’m shit at that.”

He doesn’t. He laughs, but it’s strained even to his own ears. “No, I don’t. Maybe you’re just shit at calling _me_ , what would I know.”

“I’m shit with anyone,” Geralt shrugs, then glances at the exit. “Can I walk you home? I’d like to talk with you.”

Jaskier, as it has been proved again and again, is a weak moron and nods. They head to the door without a glance behind them and the air outside is cold as fuck and Jaskier wraps his scarf a bit more around his neck to protect himself from it. They’re silent for a bit, but Jaskier doesn’t like the silence, never has, and feels compelled to fill it.

“So, you wanted to talk? Talk.” Well, at least he’s not babbling anymore. Thank god for small mercies.

“Hm,” is the reply he gets and it makes anger bubbles in his chest, anger at Geralt for being as communicative as ever, anger at himself, mostly, for the tiny ember of hope that had the gall to rekindle stupidly even if he knows it’ll only ends up in heartache. Again. 

“Right, yeah, good talk. See you around, Geralt,” he sneers, letting that anger bubble out, and walks faster, eager to leave Geralt behind, eager to _move the fuck on_.

“Jask, wait!” he hears behind him, and he hesitates for just a moment, just enough for a hand to come to grip his forearm. That... no. He shakes the hand away and turns. Geralt has not the most expressive face of the world, outside of the bedroom - and multiple other places - but Jaskier can almost say he looks... pleading. 

“What do you want from me, Geralt? It was fun, you had fun-”

“I’ve been listening to your songs.”

Oh. _Oh_. That’s _bad_. He forces a laugh.

“Good, huh? I have an amazing imagination and lots of sense for drama-”

“Jaskier, shut up one moment.” He does, because.. well he doesn’t know why, but he does. “Eskel made me listen to them, Jask, because honestly? I’ve been a mess in the last months, and it took me entirely too long to understand _why_.”

“Why?” Jaskier replies, because yeah, why? He’s been a mess in the last few months, hell, in the last _year_ , but he knows why, while Geralt is not making any sense whatsoever.

“Because I missed you, birdie, for fuck’s sake!”

 _What?_ “What?”

Geralt huffs, and tugs on his hair bun a little as he tends to do when he’s frustrated, not that Jaskier has noticed that - Jaskier has totally noticed that - and his golden eyes are wide and maybe a little panicky.

“I am an idiot, Jaskier, and I don’t know how you put up with me for as long as you did, but god I’ve missed you so bad and I didn’t even know.”

Jaskier’s brain is still not computing the information that is being dumped on it. 

“Can we go somewhere more... somewhere not in the middle of the street, Jask, please?”

The ‘please’ is what does him in, and he nods. They walk in silence, both lost in their musings. Jaskier tries, he really does, to tilt his reality in light of what Geralt said but he finds out he _can’t_. He’s always known that their arrangement, for a lack of a better word, was just sex for Geralt. He tried to keep himself in check, too, but that had been too hard. That’s why he ended things, because unrequited love is nice for a bit and it surely fuels creativity, but in the end, it hurts like a bitch. 

But now Geralt is saying he missed him. Geralt is a handsome man who can, and did, have anyone in his bed. Jaskier is not an idiot, he knows Geralt fucked other people in their year together when they didn’t see each other for some time, so why? He’s that good of a fuck? That’s flattering, truly, it is, but there’s a strange feeling deep in his throat that keeps saying that a good fuck doesn’t warrant the, _What’s the word, desperation?_ in Geralt’s eyes, or the fact that he didn’t just barrel on and try to kiss him or whatever, no, Geralt wants to talk and that, that doesn’t make sense. Geralt doesn’t usually _want_ to talk. Geralt can carry entire conversations with grunts, hums, and a well-placed curse. Everything Jaskier has pried from Geralt’s lips has been either totally unimportant or hard-fought for. It feels like a Copernican revolution and Jaskier can’t wrap his head around it and he doesn’t even notice they’ve arrived in front of his building.

“Come upstairs?” he says, because he wants to set down his guitar and be in a familiar environment and have this conversation in private. Geralt nods.

They sit at the kitchen table, two beers in front of them, and Jaskier’s brain is still too noisy for him to talk, so he waits on Geralt. He doesn’t have to wait too long, to be fair. 

“You know what I told Eskel the morning after your last text?” His voice is lovely. Jaskier shakes his head. “I told him you broke up with me.” Jaskier furrows his brows. That’s _inaccurate_. “He told me we weren’t together.” Yeah, Jaskier relaxes his face, that’s more like it. “And you know what? It didn’t occur to me that we actually weren’t.” Brows furrowed again. 

“Geralt...” he starts, but he doesn’t really know how to go on.

“Wait, please. It’s... hard for me,” Geralt laughs a bit, a bitter thing that sounds entirely wrong. “I... nobody _stays_ , Jaskier. I don’t know how to make people _stay_. Sometimes I don’t want them to, but sometimes I want but don’t know _how_. I know I’m not a master at communication,” Geralt smirks, and Jaskier would laugh his head off if he wasn’t so floored, “but you, I thought you saw through my bullshit and decided to stay nonetheless and then you didn’t and god, Jaskier, it _hurt_.”

“I... how was I supposed to... Geralt.” Jaskier takes a big breath. “Our conversations, for a year, were dirty talk. You never answered any of my texts that weren’t an offering for a fuck. We never met for anything else unless we stumbled on each other at a bar. You didn’t call, or text, or anything for weeks between our times together while you were probably busy fucking someone else,” Jaskier is standing, now, and pacing, and he almost misses the way Geralt’s face does something strange at that, “how was I supposed to know I was anything else than a... a good time every once in a while? I’m no psychic, Geralt, I can’t read your mind if you don’t use your words!” He’s not screaming. _He’s not_. But he’s not whispering either. 

“I know, Jask, I had... Well, I had some sense beaten into me. And I didn’t, by the way.” Jaskier face must do something that says he has no idea what he’s talking about because Geralt adds: “Fuck someone in between our times, Jaskier. I didn’t. I didn’t even realize it,” again with the self-deprecating laugh, “but I just... I don’t want anyone else.’ He shrugs as if that little piece of information didn’t throw a wrecking ball through the foundations of what Jaskier understands of their year together. They really didn’t talk at all, did they. Geralt unable to, Jaskier too scared to hear truths he didn’t want to hear. He sits again, taking a long sip from his beer. 

“I didn’t either,” he says because, well, Geralt’s honesty warrants him some in return. 

“Hm... I heard you had fun at Pavetta’s bachelorette party,” Geralt mumbles around the rim of his bottle, and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“The girls were harassing me to ‘fuck you out of my system’. I left with a guy I know from the university who’s as straight as they come and we spent the night me talking about you and him talking about his ex. It was a very depressing night, but at least the girls backed off,” he offers, far too candid for his taste, but by the way Geralt’s eyes recover some light, it might have been a good idea. He doesn’t know. It’s all very confusing. There’s a silence. 

“Are your songs about me?”

“Yeah.”

Silence again. 

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For making you feel that way. The songs are good, though.”

“Yeah, they are,” Jaskier smiles, because they _are_. 

Geralt fidgets with the label of his beer, peeling it off. “Did they make it worth it?”

Jaskier thinks about it. Did they? “Maybe. It depends.”

“On what?”

“On where we go from there, Geralt.”

Something amazing happens on Geralt’s face, then: a smile, albeit a shy one, with eyes downcast to the table, but a real one nonetheless, not a sexy smirk or a vague tilt of his lips, a real smile. It enlightens him from within and Jaskier is a moron and a hopeless poet and easily endeared to this wall of a man and so, so in love with him it hurts deep within. 

“You’d want to try again? With me?”

“Did we try the first time, though?”

“Probably not.”

“Yeah.”

Silence again.

“Not like before, though,” Jaskier adds, because he may be an idiot, but not _that much_ of an idiot. 

Geralt snorts. “No, not like before.”

“I need words, Geralt.” He nods. “And I like the black hair, really, I do, but _what the fuck_.”

Geralt laughs, for real this time. “Yeah, I don’t know why I did that. Better than cut it, though.” 

Jaskier shudders at the thought. “Oh god, no, don’t cut it.”

And here it is, the smirk that makes Jaskier hot under his collar. “I know you like it long enough.”

“Pff, as if you didn’t.”

“I do.”

They finish their beers in silence again. 

“I’ve never seen you wearing black before.”

“I didn’t feel like wearing color,” Jaskier replies, ignoring the way his ears get hot. 

Geralt stares at him and says, “I like it when you wear colorful things.”

“I always do.”

“I always like it.”

It’s painful, and a bit awkward, and filled with too many silences, but it’s probably the most they’ve ever talked to one another and Jaskier recognizes the feeling that blooms as hope. Which is terrifying as it is elating. 

Geralt stretches his hand on the table, towards where Jaskier’s rests near his empty bottle. It’s a shy, cute gesture. It’s also the first time they touched this evening, except for when Geralt grabbed him to stop him. He closes the distance. Geralt’s hand is big, and warm, and a bit clammy, which makes him feel better about the fact that his own is probably even clammier. 

“Can I kiss you?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier knows he should say no. He should ask for a date. He should demand to be wooed first. He should put his foot down and accept nothing but the best Geralt can give before they start anything because he doesn’t want to fall into that pit again. But he can’t, because he very much wants to be kissed and kiss in return, because he missed Geralt like a phantom limb even when they were together and he feels, deep inside of him, that if they kiss it’s going to be different than any other time, that they’re both _here_ , in _this moment_ , _together_ as they never did. He nods. 

Geralt tugs at his hand and Jaskier stands to come closer, not knowing how to settle himself until Geralt stands too and crowds him against the edge of the table. Close, but not too close. He’s hot in so many ways. His big hands come up to cradle his face, thumbs rubbing slightly at his temples, and it’s slow, so slow how he leans in to meet his lips, nothing like the passionate, angry, lustful kisses they shared before, this is sweet and careful and even chaste right until Jaskier prods at Geralt’s lips with his tongue because sweet is good, sure, but _come on_. 

And then it’s a whirlwind, lips and tongues and just a tiny bit of teeth, Geralt’s hands cradling his face, Jaskier’s hands around his waist to tug him closer, to feel him, all the bulky frame of Geralt onto his body, and it stays sweet but Jaskier moans a bit all the same and then Geralt’s hands are in his hair and his own on Geralt’s ass and god, how did he miss that ass. 

It’s Geralt who breaks the kiss, keeping his forehead against Jaskier’s, breathing shallow, eyes closed. Jaskier watches him, how he tries to regain some composure, how he tries to retreat, the doubt on the frown of his mouth. 

“I should take you to dinner first.”

“Yeah, you totally should.” Jaskier is a bit breathless too. 

Geralt backs off, just a tiny space between them that Jaskier doesn’t like at all. 

“Or you could take me to bed,” Jaskier adds, and he sees the expression on Geralt’s face smoothen, the doubt replaced by hunger in those beautiful eyes, and yeah, Geralt should buy him dinner first, but Jaskier has been abstinent for the last three months and it seems like Geralt has been too and there’s so much energy between them Jaskier doesn’t think he can wait another second. 

He’s not surprised when Geralt takes away his hands from his face to settle them under his ass and lift him. He laughs. He laughs all the way to his room and Geralt laughs too and it’s like a dam was broken because they laugh still as they undress each other between kisses and roaming hands and the laughs only stop when Geralt pushes him on the bed and Jaskier takes him in, naked and beautiful and smiling. Happy. Geralt looks happy. Jaskier didn’t even know Geralt could look happy and it’s because of him. Isn't that a thought.

Not taking his eyes off of the man Jaskier fumbles blindly for the lube on the nightstand, then bends his legs, and then Geralt tuts.

“Now, birdie, what do you think you’re doing?”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow, stilling in his movements. He rather thinks it’s obvious what he thinks he’s doing, is it not? 

Geralt crawls on the bed then, hovering over him on all four, and leans in to kiss him again. There’s no more laughter, only heat that rises between them at every passage of tongue against tongue, tongue against lips, lips against lips, teeth against lips. Geralt continues to hover, just out of reach, but Jaskier lets his hands roam on that huge back, his lovely bottom, the fine hair of his thighs, reacquainting himself with the most beautiful body he has ever had occasion to put his hands on. 

When they part, Jaskier pants a bit, hot all over, and Geralt wears the expression of mischief Jaskier knows well. 

“Do you want to suck my cock, birdie?” Geralt says, in that gravelly, deep voice of his that gets lower still when he’s hard, and Jaskier nods, because when has he not. Geralt shuffles up, straddling his shoulders, and Jaskier rearranges his pillow under his head to be more comfortable. Geralt braces himself against the wall with a hand and uses the other one to guide his dick towards Jaskier’s lips, which open eagerly. 

“Suck it, then,” he says, a smirk on his face, and Jaskier does. It’s not his favorite angle and it strains his neck but god, how has he missed it. The feeling of that smooth skin, the weight on his tongue, how it grows wetter and wetter with saliva and it glides easily, in and out, in a rhythmic motion that’s almost meditative. Jaskier’s so focused on what he’s doing it takes a bit of time to catch on what Geralt is doing, namely: preparing himself. Jaskier notices it when his hands grab at Geralt’s ass, trying to pull him in a bit more, going to slide along his crack and there, there is Geralt’s hand, two thick fingers up his asshole, and Jaskier is so surprised he chokes and gags a little on Geralt’s cock, eyes flying to meet the golden ones that are watching him, lips parted and reddened.

“Mmm, yeah, fancied a bit of change there too,” is what Geralt says as Jaskier tries to convey his incredulity despite having a cock down his throat. That... well, that never happened, but that’s not to say Jaskier isn’t really happy about this new development. He resumes his task with even more enthusiasm and lets one of his fingers trace the place where Geralt’s own disappear, feeling how he stretches and fucks himself on his hand and down Jaskier’s mouth and it’s hot, so, so hot. 

It seems like a century or a second when Geralt backs off from his mouth, shuffling back again until his ass is right upon a very hard, very neglected dick that jumps at the contact and even more when a slick hand touches it. Jaskier can’t help to keen at the contact, eyes closing and head bending backward, hands flying to whatever they can touch, arms, shoulders, waist, legs, unable to still, unable to focus on anything except for the pressure that changes from a hand to something much, much tighter. It takes a lot of concentration to not just buck into the pressure, leaving Geralt lowering himself at his pace, and when Jaskier opens his eyes the sight that waits for him is one he couldn’t even conjure in his wildest dreams. Geralt is breathing hard, his hair a crown of black curls mostly free from his hair tie, eyes shut tight, powerful torso glistening with sweat in the low light of the room, one hand braced on Jaskier’s chest, the other guiding himself down. On Jaskier’s dick. Not even in his wildest dreams. 

The rest is a bit of a blur for Jaskier. A symphony of moans and curses, the spectacle of two strong thighs with muscles that jump every time Geralt thrusts himself onto Jaskier, the sheer will it takes to not come on the spot, the feeling of Geralt’s cock in his hand, the hotness of his come on his skin, the clench around his dick almost like a stranglehold that chokes him, the tidal wave of his orgasm carrying him high and higher still. 

When they’re clean and getting back on the bed to sleep, at last, both exhausted by the sex and even more by the emotional toll of the night, Jaskier has about two seconds to worry about how to settle for sleeping. For a year he tried to be as unobtrusive as possible, sleeping mostly on one side of the bed, not cuddling much, not touching much. Horrible, horrible nights. But Geralt reaches for him, manhandling him around on his side and plastering himself on his back, sighing contently. 

“Is that ok?” he asks, though, because what do you know, they might have a shot at this communicating thing.

“Yeah, very ok,” Jaskier responds, because he’s never felt as safe and content in his bed, and sleep comes a lot easier than it ever did.

**Author's Note:**

> From Triss to Jaskier: Jas, please shut the door of your room when you have guests next time! The view was lovely though! Love you!
> 
> Like I said in the beginning, this was a bit hard to write, but I hope you're going to enjoy it anyway despite the awkwardness.  
> This concludes this series (for now?)! I hope you enjoyed it as I enjoyed writing it, and Kilt Geralt's rights!!
> 
> Your comments are my personal fuel and I thank you for them.
> 
> Check out my other Witcher fics:
> 
> \- [A piper at the gates of dawn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23411083/chapters/56107210); canon universe, ep 6 fix-it, rated E, <9k. Geralt finds Jaskier one year and a half after the mountain.  
> \- the [Muse 'verse](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1752481): Modern setting, from hook-up to lovers, rated E, Geralt wears kilts, angst with a happy ending. <20k  
> \- [Calligraphy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25365418): 5k ficwip challenge, College/University, rated E, inspired by art, fluff, 5k  
> \- [In the kitchen of a keep in the mountains](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25910944/chapters/62970847): canon universe, found family, food as a love language, internal monologues, character study, rated T, 12k  
> \- [ There was only one bed and it was uncomfortable](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26283094): 5+1 Crack, rated E, 4k  
> \- [Wish you were here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26579083); canon universe, porn without plot, rated E, 5k. Geralt walks in on Jaskier.. again.  
> \- [Of food, friendship and apologies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27954674); canon universe, ep 6 fix-it, rated G, 2k, not or pre slash. Food is a love language.  
> \- [As we lie here in our bed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28527864): canon universe, porn without plot, somnophilia prompt for the Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo, rated E, 1k  
> \- [Black in front of my eyes, bark against my back](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28616832): canon universe, porn without plot, outdoor, clothed sex, rated E, <1k  
> \- [Things that bump in the night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28617060): pre canon universe, porn without plot, Eskel/Geralt, Kaer Morhen, rated E, <1k  
> \- [I quite like seeing you all tied up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28617300): canon universe, porn without plot, Geraskier, soft bondage, rated E, <1k  
>   
> And you can come yell at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ArtanisNaanie) too!


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